The Origin of Love
by FragrantPowders
Summary: They meet on the battlefield and they meet in secret in a hotel room. While they are watching their lives be torn apart by war they try to piece themselves and each other together. What will the end of wartime bring? What is the origin of love? HarryDraco


**Title: **The Origin of Love

**Author: **FragrantPowders

**Beta:** Emma, all remaining mistakes are my own.

**Pairing: **Harry/Draco, Hermione/Ron, Luna/Ginny

**Rating: **M/R

**Warnings: **Character Death

**Disclaimer: **None of the characters from the Harry Potter universe are mine. JK Rowling owns it all and I make no profit of this. Please, don't sue me - I'm poor. I also do not own the lyricsof "Origin of Love" from the movie/musical "Hedwig and the Angry Inch", I do now claim ownership, don't sue.

**Author's Notes:** I love the song "Origin of Love", so I used it in a fanfic. It's mainly Harry/Draco, but with mentions of the other two pairings. Warfic, angsty and rather deep. This is my baby, please read and review.

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**The Origin of Love****

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**when the earth was still flat and clouds made of fire  
and mountains stretched up to the sky, sometimes higher  
folks roamed the earth like big rolling kegs  
they had two sets of arms  
they had two sets of legs  
they had two faces peering out of one giant head  
so they could watch all around them as they talked while they read  
and they never knew nothing of love  
it was before the origin of love  
**

Harry remembers peaceful nights.

He still wonders how that can be possible, since they were in the middle of a god damn war – on different sides even. But all he knows is that there were peaceful nights where they lay next to each other in a dimly lit room, the only light coming from the fireplace where the coals glowed reddish among the black.

Sometimes they lay in silence, other times they made love. Draco would of course say they fucked, because making love was not a concept existing in his world. Maybe they fucked, Harry thinks, but it didn't feel like it; like fucking. It was more intense, more powerful – in those hours they allowed themselves to forget there was a world outside that hotel room. They ignored that they were not supposed to be there and that people would have objections to their relationship. The only thing that really mattered to them was that they were_ there_. One day in the future they might not be.

In the afterglow of their orgasm Harry sometimes found himself questioning where he ended and Draco began. It was difficult to tell: they seemed like one being – a tangle of arms and legs; breaths mingling. At times like that, Harry wanted to ask Draco what he was fighting for, because Harry had long since stopped believing they were not fighting for the same thing. Survival – nothing else. To believe anything else was to be naïve and Harry had not been naïve since he had killed the first man in battle.

They never talked about the war. They told each other stories, some made up and some true, but neither of them cared about which were what. In the long run it wasn't important anyway.

"Hogwarts seems centuries away, doesn't it?" Harry once asked, Draco turning his head to watch him, silver blond hair tickling over Harry's naked stomach. They looked at each other for a long time, both thinking about Sixth Year and how the school got involved in the battle in the first place.

Harry knows, even today, that he should have blamed Draco for what happened, but he still finds himself unable to. Nothing is that simple. Nothing ever was.

"Everything seems centuries away," Draco replied, stretching like a contented cat, eyes closing in pleasure. Harry had cocked his head, watching the other boy, knowing there was more to come. "Time is relative," Draco continued, rolling onto his side. Harry could feel his eye lashes brush over his skin every time Draco's eyes opened and closed. "But it's irrelevant. Everything is, really. We only have right now, because tomorrow we're going to fight and kill and die."

Harry did not respond, but looked out the window where he could catch a glimpse of the starry sky if he twisted his neck a little. Sirius was easy to make out against the dark blue background. "What is more simple – love or hate?" he asked without meeting Draco's eyes.

"There's no difference: in the end they cause the same thing."

Harry closed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Both love and hate kill," Draco said, voice more tired than really cynical. Harry could feel him sit up and turned his head to follow the movement with his gaze. The Dark Mark on Draco's arm seemed to absorb the sparse light, but Harry had got used to the ugliness of it. It was a part of Draco, like Harry's scar was a part of him.

"Love can save lives, too," Harry told him, thinking about his mother whose sacrifice kept him alive for so many years. Draco turned towards him slowly, a feeling reflected in his eyes that Harry did not recognise.

"Love weakens," he said, voice dull as if he was simply telling Harry something he had once read or maybe been told, "Love weakens and love kills – to get involved in anything to do with love is suicidal."

Harry wanted to tell Draco no, but in that moment Draco winced and Harry knew this quiet evening would end like this. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

**and there were three sexes then  
one that looked like two men glued up back to back  
they were the children of the sun  
and similar in shape and girth were the children of the earth  
they looked like two girls rolled up in one  
and the children of the moon was like a fork stuck on a spoon  
they were part sun part earth, part daughter part son  
**

Harry thinks the war found the best and the worst in people and brought it to the surface. Amidst all the battles and all the fighting beautiful things seemed to grow.

Hermione and Ron finally figured out they were meant to be. It wasn't dramatic, with tears of laughter. Harry simply walked into Ron's tent one morning, finding Hermione with Ron's head in her lap, stroking his red hair in silence. Harry thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen – but that was before he met Draco for the first time after Dumbledore's death.

Harry tried to get it to work with Ginny while he searched for the Horcruxes. He tried to love her because he needed something as strong as love to not forget himself in his purpose of being here. He couldn't. He tried desperately and he failed and they went separate ways; Harry to the battle field and Ginny to the Healers' tent. They often met in those ugly white tents when someone Harry knew had been injured. They smiled at each other, but recognised the same dead expression in each other's eyes.

Then one day Harry himself was injured and when he woke up with a bandage wrapped around his chest and Ginny leaning over him, he saw her eyes were shining with something akin to happiness. He smiled at her and she smiled back, no tears to be seen on her cheeks.

"I'm glad you didn't die," she said, simply.

"Yes, I am, too."

They watched each other without exchanging any words for some seconds before Ginny leaned down to kiss him softly, her hair tickling his neck and the soft material of her Healer's field-cloak brushing over his stomach. When she drew back he laughed and winked at her.

"Who is it?" he asked, knowing she had found what he was so desperately trying to find himself. She blushed slightly, the colour clashing horribly with her hair, but Harry found it adorable anyway.

"It's Luna," she whispered, making sure only he caught the words. "Luna Lovegood."

He smiled and nodded. "I'm happy for you," he said, and he truly was.

The next day he stumbled across an unconscious Draco Malfoy. He brought him to the Healers' tent for Ginny to take care of, but since she outright refused he took the job upon himself, doing what he could for his old school nemesis. Draco woke up a few days later, eyes hard, but lips never parting for the questions Harry saw revealed there. Harry was glad at this, because he was not sure he could explain had the Slytherin really wanted answers.

"Dumbledore's offer is still valid," he told Draco one evening when the tent had been warded securely. The silence was only disrupted by Healers on their scheduled rounds to check on the worst cases and report on those who had died overnight. Draco nodded, as if he had waited for those words to be uttered. Harry thought he had maybe figured out the truth about the second broom.

"I know," he answered, "but I am not interested."

No more words were said that night. When the sun dawned next morning, Harry got to his feet, ignored the curious looks of the by-passers, leaning down to kiss Draco on the lips. It was not a passionate kiss, just a gentle pressure of chapped lips against chapped lips. Draco did not protest. Harry knew how he was feeling. They were both tired of fighting.

The following evening Draco was gone. Harry knew they would meet on the battle field soon, but before that they met in an exclusive, old Muggle hotel in Wales. That was their first quiet night in months. Their first quiet night together ever. They said few words, their communication nothing but panting, gasps and an occasional moan, but it was Heaven nevertheless.

**well the gods grew quite scared of our strength and defiance  
and thor said i'm gonna kill them all with my hammer  
like i killed the giants  
but zeus said no  
you'd better let me use my lightning like scissors  
like i cut the legs off the whales  
dinosaurs into lizards  
then he grabbed up some bolts, he let out a laugh  
said i'll split them right down the middle  
gonna cut them right up in half**

During the war Harry was taught how very true Dumbledore's statement about worse things than death existing was.

The Order fought long and hard, taking a Death Eater for every man they themselves lost. Harry sat at the meetings, listening to strategies and battle plans and helped inventing new curses which no shield could hold out. Suddenly Avada Kedavra seemed the most humane way of dying, Harry thought. A green flash of light seemed to be the best way. He secretly hoped he would die like that – never facing anything more.

Because Fenrir Greyback cared little for curses. He struck like a wolf, ripping out throats and eating hearts. Those of Harry's friends and comrades who were killed by Greyback were always magically fixed before their funeral. No one wanted them to be buried as bloodied, empty puppets. _Pawns,_ Draco had told him. _We're all pawns, Potter_.

Even Fenrir's killing spree, however, seemed civilized compared to the way Voldemort killed. The Order drew a blank when they tried to figure out why he did not go directly for Harry, but instead went for those around him. Seamus, Dean, Padma and Neville. Tonks, Molly, Charlie and McGonagall. Harry knew, but did not divulge Voldemort's little secret. He felt how he died a little inside for every old schoolmate falling, for every member of what he had begun to see as a family who was burned and given back to the earth.

The war divided the world into black and white – an enormous chess board of foe versus foe and family member versus family member. Lover turning enemy and enemy turning lover. The borders seemed so easy to mark out, and yet they were everything but. Every time Harry trembled under Draco's touch he remembered the last time he had met Draco's eyes through the holes in a white mask. Every time he shuddered and came, Draco so close – inside of him – he remembered the people Draco had taken away, and the people he himself had killed in return. No, even if the world seemed black and white it was nothing but play of the light in a foggy grey mass.

Harry knew that the one thing worse than dying yourself was to watch everybody around you fall, knowing you would be the last one to stand.

**and storm clouds gathered above into great balls of fire  
and then fire shot down from the sky in bolts  
like shining blades of a knife  
and it ripped right through the flesh  
of the children of the sun and the moon and the earth  
**

Ron died first. It was not a horrible death. A glimpse of green and Bellatrix's mad voice screaming "Avada Kedavra" – the way Harry would prefer to die.

Though, when the greenish fog started to fade in the aftermath of the battle everything seemed to fall apart at this one death. Hermione screamed and cried and begged to Gods Harry knew had never existed. She fell to her knees besides Ron's lifeless body, hugging him to her chest, fingers digging into his skin through the material of his Gryffindor-red shirt.

"You're so stupid, Ronald," she sobbed, face hidden in his hair. "I told you to duck, I told you to keep away from her… so stupid, please come back, please come back, please come back to me – I can't live without you."

Harry stood quietly at the sideline. So did the other Order members. They knew the procedure. It wasn't the first time someone had lost a lover or a friend or a son. Arthur stood behind Harry, his hand heavy on Harry's shoulder. Harry closed his eyes, remembering Ron from the first time they met on the Hogwarts Express, remembering Ron vomiting up slugs and Ron attacked by the brain in the Department of Mysteries. Ron had always been there – by his side. Now he was gone. In a flash of green light and two disgusting words. Harry thought it was unfair, but he couldn't even cry. He did not have the energy anymore.

Luna went next. She didn't exactly die, but after 25 hours of Cruciatus she was more mad than Neville's parents. Harry had come to her rescue, cursing Rodolphus LeStrange into oblivion, though no magic could ever make Harry forget his last mocking words. "Who would be able to tell the difference?"

Ginny was able to tell the difference. After Harry had carried the as good as lifeless body to the Healers' tent, Ginny had sat by her bed day and night. She let the other Healers' take care of the incoherently mumbling girl, but her eyes never left Luna's face; her fingers never stopped stroking her hair. Harry came to visit at mornings before joining whatever fight they had to win that day. Ginny sometimes looked at him, sometimes not.

"She told me about the people behind the Veil," she told him one morning where the sun seemed to have stayed hidden under the horizon. "Is it true?" Her voice was desperate, begging him to tell her yes. Harry had always been a terrible liar and his lips had already begun to form "I don't know." Instead he forced her face upwards so she could look into his eyes.

"Yes," he said and felt relieved at the pang of hope that lit up in her eyes. "It's true."

And through all of this Harry met Draco in their hotel room every night. A week after the death of Ron – the day following Luna's torture – Draco turned towards him in bed, one hand resting on Harry's hip.

"My mother was killed yesterday," he told Harry, voice emotionless. Harry nodded. He knew; Remus was the one to kill her. Draco looked at him as if he was supposed to say something more, but Harry was not sure what more to say. Then he remembered an old ritual from before deaths were an every day experience.

"I'm sorry," he said, the way his heart beat sped up telling him that this was how regret felt like. "I'm sorry about your mother, Malfoy." Draco nodded. They lay in silence for a long time, the flames dancing in the hearth.

"Ron was killed a week ago and yesterday Luna was tortured into insanity," Harry said into the silence. Malfoy opened his eyes and met Harry's gaze, his mouth twitching slightly as if he didn't know whether to smirk or not. Harry recognised the Malfoy from school in that gesture and ignored it, remembering how long it had taken him to utter the appropriate sentence.

"I'm sorry," Malfoy said, something restrained filling his voice, his tone forced. Harry knew he wasn't. Not really, because it had been Ron dying – not him. Luna going insane – not him. Harry sighed and blinked once before realising he felt the exact same way.

"Yes – I am, too."

Draco pushed at his chest, to get him to lie down on his back. Harry did so without asking any questions. They kissed as a celebration of both of them surviving the day.

As Draco thrust into him, fingers digging into Harry's hips, Harry was dimly aware that Draco could very well be the next who was taken away.

**and some indian god sewed the wound up to a hole  
turned it 'round to our bellies to remind us the price we paid  
and osiris, and the gods of the nile gathered up a big storm  
to blow a hurricane  
to scatter us away  
a flood of wind and rain, a sea of tidal waves  
to wash us all away  
**

Harry does not like looking at himself in the mirror. He feels as if his body is made of nothing but scars, some on his skin and even more on his heart.

Sometimes the war came to a halt – but it was never anything but the quiet before the storm. Then another battle would begin and the explosions from new curses, the magical wave of old ones, made it hard for the soldiers to hold their balance. It was dangerous to fall, because then you were dead. It was even more dangerous to lose sight of your group – no one could survive on their own in this Hell. No one did.

Harry remembers one battle more vividly than any of the others. He used no Killing Curses that evening, because he had lost his wand in the chaos, all members of his squad dead. He was running for his life, kicking and hitting and choking people with his bare hands to keep from falling and losing and dying. They had been in war for two years, 4 months, 3 weeks, 2 days and 7 hours and Harry refused to die now, almost tasting their victory on the tip of his tongue.

In the clearing in a nearby forest he ran into a dark figure, landing on top of the person in a tangle of limbs and harsh breathing. He saw the white mask before he felt the wand pressed into his side. The Killing Curse was almost finished when Harry recognised the voice, grabbing hold of the mask and yanking it off. Grey eyes locked with green and they stared at each other in silence, Draco's hand falling limply to his side.

Harry kissed him because there were no one else there to see and Draco's bottom lip was split and bleeding. It was harsh and needy because they had not met the night before due to preparations for this battle. Their tongues battled out what their wands couldn't, each trying to dominate though they were both aware it was a lost cause.

The feeling in Harry's chest was not a new experience, but it seemed more powerful than ever before, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. He had never felt anything similar to this, the strength of it creating small flames underneath his skin, his entire body tingling.

_It's love_, he realised too late as he lay in the middle of unknown territory, dark trees watching over him and Draco. Draco's hands were entangled in his hair and his own hands were shoved underneath Draco's robes. _It's love and I am doomed._

**and if we don't behave they'll cut us down again  
and we'll be hopping 'round on one foot  
looking through one eye  
**

The war is over. It is over and Harry is not dead, though so many others are. As he sits in his chair – his London apartment all light colours and expensive furniture – he asks himself if it will return some day; the war – coming with another Dark Bastard getting too much of himself and another hero bearing the heavy responsibility of saving the world on his shoulders.

Harry leans his head back, closing his eyes, and wonders why people tells him he won. Yes, he is not dead, but he wishes he was because there's nothing left. Nothing. Hogwarts has fallen and his friends are gone, Hermione dead by the hands of Voldemort, Ginny by her own.

He looks out the window, the grey sky the exact shade of Draco's eyes. Harry does not know where Draco is. They have not spoken for a long time. Not since…

He knows Draco isn't dead because there would have been reports, articles, speeches. He clings desperately to knowing he has read nothing and heard even less.

He misses Draco terribly. _Every fucking day_. He prays to the same deities as Hermione did when Ron died, hoping they, even in their non-existence, will have mercy on him.

**the last time i saw you we had just split in two  
he was looking at me, i was looking at you  
you had a way so familiar, but i could not recognize  
cause you had blood on your face  
and i had blood in my eyes  
but i could swear by your expression  
that the pain down in your soul was the same  
as the one down in mine  
that's the pain  
that cuts a straight line down through the heart  
we call it love**

They were bound to face each other on the battle field, Harry knew that. They could not turn towards other enemies for the rest of their lives. Reality wouldn't let them.

Harry knew this was going to be the last battle; he knew it by the way Voldemort suddenly stood in front of him, eyes red and mocking, Draco by his side, hidden behind his hideous mask. Harry was aware of how Voldemort followed his every move, but kept his eyes trained solely on Draco whose eyes were cold and dead behind the anonymous mask.

Harry remembered every night they had spent together. He remembered the feeling of Draco's kisses and of Draco's hands on his body. He remembered that aching in his chest when Draco stood up to leave and the discrete joy when they met again the next night.

"Kill him, Draco," Voldemort ordered softly. "Kill him and prove your allegiance to me – I will give your family more glory than they could ever dream about."

Draco's hands were trembling badly, his wand still pointing towards the ground. Harry wanted to ask Voldemort what family he was giving this glory, since Lucius was dead, killed by Death Eaters and Narcissa fallen in battle. He wanted to walk up to Draco and hug him close, kiss him or tell him it was okay – because he understood, fuck it all, he _understood_.

Finally Draco raised his wand, staring directly into Harry's eyes. The emotion Harry did not know when Draco told him about the dangers of love, he suddenly recognised as the same emotion filling himself up from the inside. _It's love_, he thought, eyes widening. _Love. _

They had both killed so many people but kept this alive. They had both tasted blood and felt it on their hands, but wiped it off in caresses and soft touches, the taste forgotten in favour of fevered kisses. Harry let go of his own wand, hearing it clatter as it hit hard rock. Draco's jaw was set and his eyes narrowed, but Harry could still see the pang of feeling in there. He stepped back, smiling.

"Do what you have to do," he said, bending down to pick up his wand.

"_Do it_, Draco," Voldemort repeated, voice cold and impatient. "Or I will start questioning where your loyalty lies."

Draco lowered his wand, eyes unfocused, lost in panicking thought. He reached up slowly, taking off his mask. Harry noticed a small scar right above his brow, making his raised eye brow seem even more evident. Then he turned to his Master, lips pressed tightly together.

"Go to hell."

He turned around, starting to walk away. Harry watched in a daze, seeing but not really noticing how Voldemort reached for his wand, energy crackling in the air around him. Almost too late Harry knew who was going to die next.

It was almost on reflex at this point; to kill. Harry stumbled forward, his hand clutching at his wand trembling. In his head there was someone screaming _no nonononono_ NO, and he realised as he knocked into Voldemort that it was himself. Voldemort did not lose his balance – Harry had not really expected he would – but turned his attention to Harry instead.

"Love weakens," he laughed, mockingly. "Love _kills_, Potter. You should know by now."

Harry didn't reply. Instead he drove the tip of his wand into Voldemort's side, feeling the skin break. "Goodbye," he told Voldemort, meeting his eyes. The Avada Kedavra shone greenly over his skin and he felt convinced for a moment that he had, indeed, killed himself, too.

Then he blinked, letting go of his wand. Voldemort's body hit the ground with a dull thud.

When he looked around people had stopped fighting, but Draco was nowhere to be seen. Harry felt like the lousiest hero ever.

**we wrapped our arms around each other  
tried to shove ourselves back together  
we were making love, making love  
**

The hotel room was dark. Empty. Harry could still hear the celebrations – wizards all over the country partying and toasting to their victory – echoing through the streets outside the windows. Harry sat down on the bed, his eyes slowly getting used to the lack of light. He more felt than heard something move behind him.

Draco was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, cloak the same as the one from the battle – his hair still dirty from escaping curses and hexes. Harry watched him in silence. The way the moonlight reflected in his eyes told Harry he was awake.

"I'm going to flee England," Draco told him, voice hoarse. "I don't know if I'm coming back."

Harry wanted to respond to that, but found it impossible as his heart skipped a beat and his eyes began to sting. He didn't want Draco to leave – he wanted Draco to stay here with him. Now, when there was finally no war to separate them, when people were finally too caught up in being alive to care. Instead of protesting he lay down next to Draco, no part of their bodies touching, but the air between them so tense Harry could feel himself shudder.

"You're their long awaited hero now, Potter," Draco continued, hand moving just an inch, fingers brushing over the back of Harry's hand. Harry turned his hand palm up, catching Draco's hand in his own, entwining their fingers. Draco didn't draw back – he never really did.

"I don't care," Harry said. Draco rolled onto his side, resting on his elbow and watched Harry in silence. Harry returned the gaze. Draco withdrew his hand, sitting up to slide off his shirt. Harry followed his example until they were both naked in the dark.

"I don't think I'm coming back, Potter," Draco said, reaching out a hand to let it run over Harry's stomach. Harry leaned into the touch, not knowing what to say. "I don't think I'll ever come back again." Harry wanted Draco to shut up, to stop talking. He inched forward, hands gripping Draco's thighs urgently, and pressed his lips to Draco's. Draco tasted of death, but Harry didn't care. He had never cared. If Draco was death, death seemed pretty damn appealing.

Draco pushed him down onto his back, resting on top of him, hands keeping Harry's arms trapped against the mattress. Harry closed his eyes as Draco kissed a trail down his chest, his tongue familiar with every sensitive spot on Harry's body.

Harry did not complain when Draco only stroked his cock _once, twice_ before turning his attention fully to Harry's entrance, fingers finding the exact angle expertly. They were used to be in a hurry and Harry did not know when Draco had planned to leave. It could be in a week; it could be in an hour.

He marvelled on how they fit as Draco thrust into him. Because they did. Perfectly. Here, in this room they could talk and make love and just _be_. But this room was not the world. Sometimes Harry questioned if it was even real.

When he came, Draco's mouth drowning his cry, he knew why they called orgasm "La Petite Mort" in France.

**it was a cold dark evening such a long time ago  
when by the mighty hand of jove  
it was a sad story how we became lonely two-legged creatures  
the story, the origin of love  
that's the origin of love  
oh yeah, the origin of love  
**

Harry gets up from his chair slowly as someone knocks on the door, brushing a finger gently down Hedwig's back as he walks by. Sometimes journalists come by in the hope of the true story, but Harry has nothing to tell them, because the true story is no one's but his – and another boy's, but he is lost to the world.

He feels too old. He feels too alone. He feels too dead.

There is no one at his door – a ghostly whisper, perhaps, and a piece of parchment left on his doorstep. It is creamy white and he does not recognise the writing. How could he? All the people whose writing he knew as well as his own are dead.

_Potter,_ the note reads and Harry's heart stops beating for a moment. No one besides Draco ever called him Potter. _I've rented the room for a couple of hours. Feel free to drop by._

Harry asks himself the same thing over and over again as he puts on his cloak. He remembers asking Draco the same thing so long ago – in that room.

"Can you be dead and alive at the same time?"

Draco had looked at him for a long time, eyes swallowed up by black pupils and arousal. He had smiled, just slightly. "The concepts of being dead and alive are relative, Potter," he had answered before licking one of Harry's nipples playfully.

Harry wants to feel truly alive – he wants to love and he wants to stop feeling as dead as Hermione, Ron, Ginny and all the others who are not there anymore. He hopes Draco can show him how.


End file.
